Four Funerals and a Wedding
by RochelleRene
Summary: If it all had to go like it did, then this is how I wish it could all end. I can't stop rooting for Huddy.


**So, I'm 90% sure this will be my last fic. It's time to move on and I am really proud of this one. I think it says all the stuff I have wanted to say about Huddy. I might find I'm too addicted to it to stop, but I also don't want to be 70 years old and still writing about these jokers. Not sure where the line in the sand is.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own this couple. I have come to the conclusion that they own me.**

[H] [H] [H]

As expected, Wilson's death did horrible things to House. It triggered a cycle of irrational emotions that he battled with rational explanations that provoked further irrational emotions. He was hanging by a thread - both physically and psychologically - by the time he was mingling with the throngs of people after the funeral.

When he saw her for her the first time since the last time, the hole in his soul that she had made, that he had thought couldn't get any deeper until Wilson died, got deeper still. Behaviors and biology could explain all the loss he had experienced these last years, but he suddenly had just a sliver of empathy for the "Why me?" moment that Wilson had discussed with him during super-chemo. Granted, he wasn't in excruciating pain lying in a pile of his own shit… er... Damn that cycle.

She was pensive, looking at a photo of Wilson that was on display. She was skinnier still, and the grief and travel had made her look tired. Vulnerable. He moved to stand next to her.

"How are you, Cuddy?" His voice cracked a little, making him sound like a junior high student approaching his crush. He hadn't talked much lately, and truth be told, he was nervous.

She was not caught unaware by his approach. She looked at him as if she'd rehearsed this moment. "Hi, House," she replied, with a small smile that was two parts pity, one part pretense.

"Fancy meeting you here," he joked, nudging her with his elbow.

"Don't," she warned.

He studied the details of the frame around Wilson's picture.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I…" he trailed off.

"Drove you _car_ into my _house_?" she offered, with a quiet snorty laugh.

"I was gonna say hit on you at my best friend's funeral, but yeah, that too."

"I didn't want to make this any harder for you," she began, "But Wilson was my dear friend too, and I couldn't not come." She met his eyes and set her jaw. "I don't want to talk to you, House."

"I wanted to just go back," he murmured. "Get a do-over… Unfortunately, my Dodge hit your dining room before it got to 88 miles per hour."

"Thanks," she hissed. "Cracking jokes about it really softens the blow. How long have you been saving that one up for?"

They stood there. House realized that at least a dozen pairs of eyes around the room were surreptitiously on them.

"I don't know how to do this, Cuddy," he said between gritted teeth.

"Well, that's not my problem anymore, House."

"Oh, right. I forgot. If you can't do something perfectly, just don't do it… The ole Cuddy motto," he said with a fake smile and a bite in his voice. "Then no one will know you're not perfect."

Cuddy took a slow breath. "Allow me to model for you, one last time, how adults handle their emotions," she stated with narrowed eyes. Then she softened a little. She put a hand to his cheek and said "I want you to know that I feel so sad for you because of the loss of your friend." She said it with the utmost sincerity. Then she turned on her spiked heel and walked out.

[H] [H] [H]

A year later Cuddy's mother died. She had multiple systems failure that was collected under the label of "natural causes." Cuddy couldn't help thinking of him when she read the autopsy report because House had always cringed at that deduction. _All deaths are from natural causes -_ she could practically hear him saying –_just often caused by unnatural things._

Cuddy and her sister had collected items after the funeral – photos, flower displays – and they took them back to her sister's home. They were going through the flower arrangement notes and dividing up who would write responses to the senders.

Cuddy's sister tossed a card across the dining room table to her. "Do you know who this would be from? From those roses?"

Cuddy read the card: _I want you to know that I feel so sad for you because of the loss of your mother._

She wrote him back a perfunctory thank you note, with a p.s. _Maybe you're getting a little better._

[H] [H] [H]

Two years later a major donor for PPTH died. House went to the enormous funeral on the off-chance that she might be there, as he had been a major donor even back in her reign. He knew it was odd, but stalking his ex-girlfriend at a funeral a half-decade after breaking up was something he could live with.

He did spot her after an hour of searching through strangers. When he saw her step outside for air, he walked up behind her.

"I want you to know I feel completely neutral because of the loss of this man who gave you money."

She laughed. She actually laughed out loud. At a funeral. Good sign.

Cuddy turned around and looked at him. "How are you, House?" she asked, almost casually.

"Better than that guy," he said, gesturing into the church with a shake of his head. She smiled and they stared at each other for a full minute. "How are _you_, Cuddy?" he finally asked.

"Tired a lot," she said in all honesty. More staring.

"You wanna get outta here?" he asked. She laughed at him again.

"You really like workin' the funeral circuit, eh?"

He shrugged. "I dig chicks in black and no one will yell at me in a religious building." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Coffee?" he asked again. "For old time's sake?"

Cuddy nodded after a few seconds. They drove separately, drank four cups each, and talked about the shallow side of deep stuff. What was Rachel doing, what were his latest weird cases, how was she doing without her mother, how was he doing without Wilson.

His leg was throbbing because he was so tense around her and when he couldn't take it anymore he shook a couple Vicodin into his palm. He could have gone to the bathroom or used some sleight of hand, but he felt like that would be salt in a five-year-old wound, even if she never found out.

"Still at it, huh?"

"Addicts wanna use."

"I'm surprised you're still alive, House."

"Bodies wanna live." He tossed back the pills. "It's a grudge match."

Cuddy sipped her coffee. "I wish I knew what it felt like, just for a minute," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"Your leg," she stated plainly. "The pain."

"No you don't," he assured her, laughing softly at the ridiculousness of that desire.

"Wouldn't you like it if I could understand?" Cuddy asked.

"You can't understand," he explained, "Unless you know it will be there the next minute, and the minute after that. And the year after that."

"Do you blame me, House?" she asked suddenly. He looked at her and his eyes narrowed a hair. This was uncharted water. "House?" she pressed.

House sighed. "Cuddy, I know you want a simple answer to that question and you want an honest one and I can't give you both."

Cuddy swallowed. "I want the honest one."

It hung in the air between them.

"When the pain is really bad, yeah, sometimes I blame you." Cuddy felt the sting but didn't let on. "But your name is on a long list of people I blame, ranging from my high school guidance counselor to the God I don't believe in." He looked at her. Why did she think she could still hide anything from him? She never could. "I wish you and Stacy had made a different decision the same way I wish I had been more aggressive about getting treatment."

Cuddy snorted. "More aggressive might have led to criminal charges."

He grinned, happy for a joke. "You know what else? When I see amputees, or when I wake up from a nightmare about that day and reach down to make sure my leg is there, I thank you." Cuddy sucked in her lips. "I know you saved my leg," he assured her. "You just had to fuck it all up so I was completely un-datable as part of your seduction scheme."

Cuddy nodded solemnly. "Exactly. Before the infarction you needed to beat them off with a stick." House reached down and gave his cane a wave.

"You're a good doctor, Cuddy. You made the right call," he told her. "Record that in your memory because I'm never going to say either of those things again, you impotent administrator." She laughed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. She stared at her coffee cup as she said it. "I want you to know I feel so sad for you because of the loss of your leg." She met his eyes for a half second, then looked back down.

House kicked his leg out a little so it rested against hers under the table. "I didn't lose my leg."

He saw her single tear splat on the napkin beside her saucer. She looked up, tossed her hair behind her shoulder, and asked if he'd heard from any of his old team.

They parted highly caffeinated and unexpectedly lighter.

[H] [H] [H]

One year later, Foreman was finally, finally getting married. He had paused his ambition just long enough to trick a woman into thinking he was a decent lifelong companion, and now he was sealing the deal.

At the reception, they were seated as far away from each other as possible. House wondered if it was discussed as openly as people discuss their divorced parents or frat boy brother and twelve-step cousin.

He still found her. She was finally in a color – blue – and she looked stunning. They had talked here and there since the coffee shop, usually with some medical pretense opening the door. He had fought the thought that this could ever be repaired. It was illogical. But there she was, glowing and happy and as dateless as he was. He hoped it was because the same faint possibility had occurred to her. They played Etta James' "At Last" and he walked over to her table. "This is the song for old people falling in love," he murmured in her ear. "You wanna dance?"

"Who you callin' old?" she asked him, without looking back.

"What are you callin' love?"

She turned and smiled at him. "You seriously want to dance."

He shrugged. "You look beautiful. It's a slow one. And you talk so much it's almost over." Cuddy laughed and got up and they went to the dance floor and swayed, awkwardly at first until she let go of her self-consciousness enough to actually lean into him a little. Many eyes were watching them and the weight of the stares made this all the harder. But strange as it was, the feeling of holding her again was thrilling and looking this closely into his eyes again was intoxicating.

The song ended and she began cajoling him to continue, knowing he wouldn't. It had all been a gesture, an overture to make contact. He reclaimed his cane from the back of her chair and made his way to the bar to order them both drinks. She stood at the edge of the dance floor, giving him a mock defiant look. Jesus Christ, was she flirting? House held up a mojito and mouthed over the music, "Two drinks, one hand," with a smirk. Always playing the pity card, she thought with a chuckle. She walked over, retrieved his scotch from the bar, and let him lead her onto a terrace where it was quieter and the cool air refreshed them. They leaned against a wide concrete railing, looking into the dusky sky.

"How are you, Cuddy?" he asked. It always started this way – with that innocuous conversation opener that was layered with so much more between these two.

She smiled at him. "I'm doing well, House. Really well."

They talked for hours. They found a table on the terrace, they got more drinks, ate cake, and exchanged pleasantries – well, Cuddy did anyway – with passing acquaintances. They sparred and laughed and brought each other up-to-date on minutia. It seemed to have gone by so quickly when the band announced the last song and the waiters began clearing tables. They grew quiet.

"I want to see you again," House confessed. "Before someone else dies."

"Or gets married," she deflected. He let the silence hang there. "I don't know, House," she finally said.

He reached across the table and touched her hand tentatively, fingertip to fingertip. "That's fair," he admitted. "But after all this time, you're still the only one who makes me happy," he said. He stood up and she looked up into his face. "Think about it, Cuddy. I'm in 472 if you decide to be a lunatic in the middle of the night again. I'll go roll around in some dirt and sit on the bathroom floor, if it helps." He winked at her. "If not, I'll see you around."

He walked away. She exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her thoughts were racing so fast, she truly felt faint. She rested her forehead on her palm and a waiter stopped to ask her if she needed anything. Did she?

She looked up, as if waking from a dream, and walked quickly back into the ballroom. She saw him talking to Chase, his back to her. She rushed to the elevator and punched the button for four, rummaging in her purse. She found a pen and wrote on a napkin: _632. YOU need to save ME this time because I am about to do something very stupid._

She smiled. Her insides were churning with adrenaline and her brain was second-guessing every other thought. "You're freaking out, Lisa. Stop freaking out." She was talking to herself on an elevator. _Just breathe. It's one night. _ She found 472 and slipped the napkin and her room key under the door, then rushed back to the elevator, hoping he wouldn't be on it. She stepped aboard and realized with sweet horror what she'd just done and the fact that there was no going back now. But was there ever? Why had she thought of him when she'd put on her makeup? Why had she scanned the names for his table number? Why had she put both room keys in her purse?

She entered, dropped her stuff and sat on the bed. Now what? Should she just sit and wait? She knew she had done her part and now she needed to carry on, doing what she would normally do, and deal with things as they happened. She took off her dress, washed her face and brushed her teeth, and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She went to the air conditioner and turned it down very low. She loved having the room very cold and getting under lots of blankets. Still clad in her underwear, she slipped under the covers and willed herself to just go to sleep.

Come on. Sleep? She listened to any murmur of a sound in the hallway. She stared at the numbers on the digital clock as they flicked into the wee hours. By 1am she was sure he wasn't coming. He'd chickened out. Or he'd met some sleazy broad at the very end who was drunk and had daddy issues. She was resigning herself to slip out in the morning to avoid an embarrassing run-in when she heard the click of the door lock. She clenched her eyes shut. She scolded herself for ever doing this. She smiled into the dark.

"Goddamit, Cuddy, it's freezing in here!" he said as he entered. "You still do this? I'd have thought menopause would be over by now."

She bit her lip in childish excitement. Oh, she missed him. How could she not miss this awful man?

"You really know how to seduce a lady," she teased back. "Menopause is so sexy."

"I'm hoping…" she heard his cane hit something – a chair leg or table – "…the seduction part…" Bang. "… is behind us…" Thump. "Cuddy, I can't see anything. Are you trying to maim my other leg?"

"I was simply trying to get some sleep, House. I didn't know what exactly you'd be up to." She felt his cane hit the bed and his weight settle onto the side of it. She heard the whoosh of him taking his tuxedo jacket off.

"Hmmm. The one that got away leaves her hotel room key for you in the middle of the night and a note asking you to come to her. I can see why you weren't sure what to expect."

She heard his voice coming closer as he spoke. Then she felt his breath and his stubble tickled her chin a little. "I didn't get away," she corrected. "I ran away because you are damaged."

"You ran away because I am not fixable." She felt his hands hold her face. She tried to steady her breath.

His brain was whirling. He wanted this to work. He didn't want to get laid. They could stay dressed in the pitch black all night for all he cared. He wanted her back. He needed her in his life – the more the better. She had had coffee with him last time, danced with him this time. He was afraid he was getting greedy and might screw up some decent progress, but come on. They weren't exactly spring chickens. Time was not on their side.

"And I'm not, Cuddy," he continued. "Don't convince yourself of any lies that I am. But I do love you." He kissed her lightly. He pushed up on one arm and reached for the lamp on the bedside table. A dim light bathed the room and he looked down to see her, hands covering her eyes. He slipped his arms under the blankets to pull her closer, and he waited.

"You can't make me responsible for all your happiness," she declared, still hiding behind her palms.

"You can't make me responsible for all your unhappiness." She lifted her palms and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Or you can," he relented. "Blame me, fight with me, kick me out of the bed, lock me out of the house. It's fine. I can take it. Just forgive me and let me back in the next day. I'll be as dysfunctional as you want again and again if I can just do it with you."

He held his breath. She winced and moaned, "God, I still can't help it, you sonofabitch."

House smirked, then kissed her again. She slid her hand up his sides, untucking his shirt and slipping them against his skin. He closed his eyes, reveling. He'd been obsessed with this, since the moment he'd lost her. As her hands skated up his chest he bent his head to kiss them. "I miss you all the time," he confessed quietly into the blankets between their bodies. She kissed the top of his head.

"I know."

She unbuttoned his shirt and as she slid it down his shoulders he tugged the blankets back to reveal her perfection clad in lace. "It's cold!" she complained.

"I know! This is so weird of you!"

She laughed. "Do you want me to list what's weird about you?"

"I want you to let me into your weird blanket world so I can take my clothes off without risking hypothermia." He kicked off his shoes, wormed his way under the covers, and pulled her close. He buried his face in her neck and sighed.

"See? It's nice," she concluded.

"It doesn't need to be 60 degrees in the room for it to be nice under blankets with a half-naked Cuddy." He kissed down her arms and unhooked her bra.

"You don't get it." She undid his pants and slid them down his legs.

"I do, actually. I have a whole psychological theory for why you like to do this…" he began, pausing his worship of her body to prop himself up and explain.

"Save it," she interrupted. "It's sure to piss me off and turn my brain back on again, which isn't in your favor."

"Theory tabled." He returned his attention to kissing her stomach.

Cuddy lay there trying to tell herself this was wrong, a one-night stand, a bizarre nostalgic reunion. She tried to tell herself that he was just good in bed, and that's why his mouth on her nipples could almost make her come in thirty seconds. She tried to tell herself that they just had a long shared history, and that's why she felt so comfortable with him whether happy, sad, mad, or so fucking turned on she couldn't see straight. She tried to tell herself he was a selfish egomaniac, and that's why he had obsessed about her for years and done everything he could to get her to love him… er… Wait.

He was still incredible. The most incredible. She still loved him. Him the most.

He was kissing the inside of her thigh and she was kicking the now unneeded blankets down the bed, trying to get some relief from the crazy heat between them. He slid her panties off and began kissing her. Something hurt and it took her a second to realize she was biting her own pinky finger in an effort to control herself, to distract herself from the delicious anticipation. Her body began that bizarre behavior of pulling away from the source of too much pleasure, but he held her hips and took her all the way up so that she was hitting the sheets with tiny fists, calling his name in tiny gasps, and blowing his mind in a huge way.

When he felt the waves of her orgasm ebbing, he released her. She hooked her legs across his back and lay there unabashedly panting and beaming with a wide-open mouth. He smiled at her crazy post-orgasmic position – one arm thrown back over her head, one hand pressed against her sternum, head tilted at an angle like she was trying to read something written upside down on the headboard. She was adorable.

He worked his way back up her body, tickling her skin with his stubble. He loved that she didn't act like that was cute, but instead grumbled in annoyance. She would be so polite to everyone else, but she would be whatever she really was with him. Like annoyed that he was tickling her after a perfectly lovely climax.

He wrapped his arms around her and she returned to earth and kissed him. "Thanks for that," she murmured.

"Don't mention it."

"I have to when I make the pros and cons list of being in a relationship with you again."

"Well, in that case, I think it merits two mentions." She opened one eye and glared at him.

"Come on, that makes up for at least one 'borrowed' toothbrush and a drunken stupor."

"We'll see," was all she promised. She pushed against his chest, rolling him onto his back and straddling him. He looked up at her, perched across his hips.

"What are you going to do to make up for shredding my heart into smithereens?" he asked.

Cuddy turned her head and put a finger to her lip, as if in deep consideration. "How about I have sex with you right now and give some consideration to doing it again in the future?"

"Hmmm," he thought aloud. "I feel like I should hold out for more."

"Really. Okay, let's think of how many oral-sex induced orgasms would make up for destroying my house, you ass."

"I commit to fully compensating you for that. If it takes the rest of my life."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"And I hate it."

"Kinda."

He moved his large hands over her body, groping her in the ways that made her arch into his touch. What did this woman do to her skin? It was so soft it was imperceptible. He'd used her soap and he still felt like a barnacle. She was just silky gorgeousness.

When she lifted her hips and moved down on him, it was his turn to bite his own flesh – his bottom lip – in pleasure. Her hands rested lightly on his belly and she rocked on his pelvis and he made noises he hadn't made in a long time – in six years. He cupped her breasts, running his thumbs across her nipples. He alternated between staring up at her until he couldn't bear it any longer, to closing his eyes and just feeling her until he couldn't bear that any longer. He dragged his fingers down the sides of her body and moved his hand to push against her clit. Cuddy let out a primal moan and began breathing in short bursts, moving so that he could slide deep inside her while she pushed for more pressure against his hand.

He watched her. He sucked in his lips. He dug his other fingers into his own fucked up thigh to make himself wait for her. He saw her eyebrows knit the way they did when she was close. He lifted his hips a little, to reach more of her. Her grey eyes popped open for a half second and met his before clenching shut as she writhed on top of him like a wild animal. House let go and grabbed her hips, pulling them down against his as he rocked with her. He clung to rationality above all else, and yet his most pleasurable moments in life made him unable to think. He couldn't string a sentence together save, "Cuddy. Yes." Was that one or two?

It took a blissful forever, but they eventually started breathing normally, opening their eyes, and feeling aware of having limbs again. Cuddy looked down at him with a half smile, then flopped onto him and exhaled a shaky breath. He grinned. He knew that exhale. It meant what she wanted was overtaking what she thought she should want. "This is crazy," she declared, in one last ditch effort. "I had a restraining order against you!"

"Yeah, like you're the first woman to have a restraining order against her junkie ex-boyfriend and take him back." He tickled her arms.

The word "junkie" cued her. She realized she hadn't seen him take a Vicodin the whole evening. She sat up a little to look at him. His eyes were closed and he was still smiling. "Are you clean?"

"No," he said, without hesitation. He rubbed a hand over his face. "And the agony of detox is not something I'd like to do again." He opened his eyes then to look at her in all seriousness. "But if that's what you need, I can try."

"I know you're in pain," she thought aloud.

"Always," he added. "But I can limit it to my leg," he told her. "I'll stop popping pills when I'm mad or frustrated or… whatever."

She gave him a suspicious look. "Is that even possible?"

He sighed and shrugged. "It's not possible for me to not want it, which what I think you want, Cuddy. But it's also not possible for me to not want you."

She swallowed. "I just want you well," she whispered.

He took one of her hands and kissed it. "I am."

They fell asleep tangled up together, and for the first time in years neither of them quite knew what the next day would bring.

[H] [H] [H]

A year and a half later Cuddy dreamt of his death. She was standing in a morgue, getting ready to perform the autopsy. She stared at his scruffy handsome face, his eyes closed. She saw his hands lying uselessly at his sides. She knew it was time, but she couldn't stand the thought of cutting into him and making this real, of accepting that he was just no more. How could she work, eat, breathe without him in this world?

A sickening feeling was twisting her stomach. She reached out to his lifeless body and touched him. Something wasn't right. His body shifted, like a beanbag. She ran her hands over his limbs and everything felt strange. He was boneless. She grabbed her scalpel. Wilson was next to her suddenly, telling her she shouldn't be doing this. "Something's wrong," she told him. She placed the blade against his chest and sliced down House's torso. She pulled back a layer of skin and muscle and saw nothing but a mass of white tablets, a mound of Vicodin where his organs and skeleton should be. She looked at Wilson in horror. "Look at this!" she screamed. "Will you look at this?"

"I know, Cuddy," he said in his calm manner.

"You know? How did he do this? How did he live like this?" She was getting hysterical. "Did you give him all this?"

This was the part of the dream where she was straddling sleep and reality. Something in her dream-mind was trying to tell her this was not possible, that his body could not have transformed into his drug of choice.

"His leg, Cuddy. Something had to be done about his leg."

Cuddy looked back down at his body. A sheet was covering his lower half and she pulled it back in a mad rush. House's leg was being consumed, teeming with maggots. She started hitting them off of him, but they were endless. She looked at Wilson, but he had left. She was about to scream for help.

Cuddy woke up with a start. The sound of the interstate whooshed past her ears. House looked over at her from the driver's seat. "You were dreaming," he informed her.

"Yeah," she said, trying to reorient herself. House reached out and held one of her hands while he drove. "I dreamt you were dead."

He nodded as if he had expected that. "Going to a funeral. You got death on the brain."

She kept replaying the horrific images in her mind, in contradictory attempts to both to remember them and flush them away. She slowly calmed and listened to the radio. She looked at his hand holding hers and ran her thumb along his skin. His hand was alive, strong, capable. Her mind flitted now to something she'd avoided asking him for the last few days. She'd planned to ask him during the long drive. Maybe that's what sparked the dream. Or maybe what sparked the dream also sparked the need to ask him this.

"House," she began.

"Hmm?"

"Did you help Thirteen die?" His forehead wrinkled in consideration. He didn't answer her.

"House?"

"You can't unknow this, Cuddy."

"I can't not know."

He looked at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

"She was in pain."

They were silent for a few minutes. That's what Cuddy was afraid of. His pain was what she was always afraid of.

"You always say living is all we have."

"She fought the good fight, Cuddy. She made the decision she was done. She wanted to end it and she didn't want any screw-ups. A life of pain was all she had left."

She swallowed. "Was it peaceful?"

House sighed. "It was ugly. There's no way around that. You can want it, you can be ready. But the body shutting down is always ugly."

"Are you sad?"

"Yes."

They rode along. Cuddy unhooked her seatbelt and slid over next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Try not to die on me," she told him. House squeezed her hand.

"Everybody tries."


End file.
